Zerlinda said nothing. Instead she opened the door and spoke quickly in Portuguese to the soldier who waited outside. He entered the room, and, walking swiftly up to Velvet, he hit her on the jaw, catching her as she collapsed unconscious into his arms.
“Get shoes for yourself and your mistress, and any other small thing you can carry that will make her comfortable,” said Zerlinda. “I will wait outside, but be quick.”
Pansy gathered up Velvet’s hairbrush, some hairpins, ribbons, handkerchiefs, a tiny jeweled gold mirror, and a small silver paring knife that Velvet carried on a delicate matching chain. Carefully Pansy wrapped the whole bundle in a large silk square. Sturdy shoes, Zerlinda had said. Pansy almost laughed. Sturdy shoes were all she possessed, but her lady was another matter. All she had were silken slippers. Sighing, Pansy unwrapped her bundle and, adding three pair of the delicate footwear, retied it. Then hoisting it into her arms she left the room.
Pansy followed Zerlinda down into the courtyard where a formidable-looking caravan was assembled. “Your mistress is there,” said Zerlinda, pointing at a cart. “This entire caravan is made up of gifts for the emperor. It is well protected. Neither you nor your mistress will come to any harm. The caravan master understands that your mistress is a special gift for the emperor himself.” Then as an afterthought Zerlinda said, “Tell your mistress that the lord Akbar is a kind and good man well loved by his people.”
Pansy clambered into the cart where her mistress lay. Gently she fingered Velvet’s jaw. Thank God there would be no bruise, and that was a miracle for the brute had hit her hard enough.
The caravan departed the governor’s palace and wound through the silent streets of the city onto the northwest highway. A bright moon shone down on them, illuminating their way.
It wasn’t until morning that Velvet began to rouse. By then the caravan was well north of the city. Pansy, who had been walking next to the cart that carried Velvet, was glad to see her mistress awake and apparently unharmed.
With the sun came the heat, and finally toward midmorning they made camp in the shelter of some large rocks. Water and fruits were passed around, the animals cared for, and then everyone but those guarding the caravan fell asleep.
“I know you’ve slept all the night, m’lady, but you’d best sleep today as well. Tonight you’ll be walking, and you’re not used to it,” Pansy said.
“I feel awful,” Velvet admitted, “my head hurts.”
“I’m not surprised,” the tiring woman fussed as she braced her mistress’s shoulders and gently fed her some brackish water. When Velvet had sipped her fill, Pansy offered her slices of a soft, reddish fruit with a sweet taste. “I ain’t got no idea what it is, but it tastes good,” she said.
Velvet laughed weakly, but she nibbled on the fruit eagerly.
They slept the day away in the stifling heat, which toward mid-afternoon was broken for a short time by a rainstorm. Huddling in a small, open cave made by two large rocks, they were better protected with their hooded capes than the others.
Then in the late afternoon as the rain ceased several cookfires sprang up, and a lamb was butchered and roasted. Together the two women waited their turn as the meat was finally carved, and were given pieces of lamb and a ladleful each of rice on a tin plate. There were no utensils, and so, following the lead of their captors, they used their three middle fingers to scoop up the rice. The meal over, the trek began again as soon as the campfires were put out and everything packed away.
It was in the middle of the third week of their trek that Pansy fell ill of a fever. What caused it Velvet did not know, but when the tiring woman could walk no farther and collapsed onto the road, the caravan master was for leaving her. Frantically Velvet clung to her servant, her friend. “No! I won’t let you,” she protested, her green eyes filling with tears.
Angrily, the caravan master shouted at her and tried to pull her away, but Velvet clung to Pansy like moss to a rock. “No!” She sobbed desperately, and then suddenly an idea struck her. Falling to her knees, she frantically scrabbled through the bundle Pansy had hastily packed at the governor’s palace. Finding what she sought, she stood and held it out with one hand while pointing first to Pansy and then to the cart with the other.
The caravan master’s eyes grew round with greed at the sight of the dainty, bejeweled gold mirror. There was a girl in Lahore that he was courting, and this was a finer gift than anything he could ordinarily give her. He reached for the mirror, but Velvet shook her head and pointed again at the cart. The caravan master nodded and reached out once more, but Velvet dropped again to her knees and began to draw in the dirt with her finger. Fascinated, he watched her, and when she gestured him over he knelt to see a rather crude rendition of the cart, a long road, and finally a city. When his eye had reached the end of her message, she laid the mirror down on the city portion and looked at him.
He gazed at her, wondering if he could trust her and admiring her cleverness in bargaining with him despite the language barrier. As if she sensed his thoughts, Velvet detached the filigreed gold chain she used to hang the mirror from her belt and offered it to him. Taking it from her, he nodded his agreement. The chain now, the mirror when they reached their destination, and in return the sick girl could ride in a cart. He gave the order, and Pansy was lifted from her place upon the ground and into the cart beneath which they had been sleeping at night.
Velvet breathed a sigh of relief, not realizing that the caravan master fully expected that Pansy would be dead long before they reached Lahore. She might have been, too, had word not come that Akbar was at Fatehpur-Sikri and the caravan altered its route. In the meantime Velvet worked frantically nursing her servant, terrified lest she lose her friend and her last link with England. She knew very little of what to do, for the herbal medicine she had learned from her mother and Dame Cecily involved herbs and roots that she had no idea how to obtain here in this unfamiliar place. If only she could find some fennel leaves, which, brewed as a tea, would help to lower Pansy’s fever. Violet tea was another decoction that could help, but she suspected that violets were not native to this hot land. How could she find marrows, another fever remedy? She simply didn’t know, and her inability to help Pansy fully was both frightening and frustrating. The most Velvet could do was to bathe her servant’s hands and head, and to get water, mashed fruit, and juices into her, a task that became increasingly difficult as Pansy spent more and more time unconscious.
By the time the caravan reached Fatehpur-Sikri, Velvet was terrified both of Pansy’s fate and of the unknown fate that awaited her.
“And does your fate seem so awful now, my Scheherezade?” Akbar asked her as she stopped speaking.
“I do not know what my fate is to be yet, sire,” Velvet answered him.
He looked at her a long moment, and then said, “I think you do know.”
Again her cheeks filled with color, and she lowered her eyes. Velvet was no fool, and she knew quite well why the Portuguese governor had sent her to the Grand Mughal. She was not a virgin, yet still she was afraid. In her mind she yet remained Alex’s wife.
“And Pansy?” she said, finding her voice and attempting to change the subject. “Has your physician been able to determine what is wrong with her?”
“It took some time, I am told, to bathe her in her unconscious state. The physician should be with her now. Would you like to go and see?” He rose easily from his seated position on the bed and held out his hand to her.
Shyly she put her hand in his and stood to go with him. He led her from her chamber, down the corridor to another smaller room. Within, Velvet saw a very pale Pansy lying on a bed, an elderly, bearded gentleman standing over her. The physician turned as they entered the room and, bowing, spoke to Akbar.
“My lord, I have been able to render a diagnosis. It is really quite simple. The woman is suffering from the effect of our heat to which she is obviously not accustomed, and from a swelling of her hands and feet, which have been brought on by her advanced state of pregnancy. She should deliver her child within a month to six weeks. She must remain in bed until that time. I have prescribed a diuretic, which should reduce the swelling. With rest, shelter from the sun, and cool baths her fever will shortly abate. Should the swelling not go down within the next few days I will induce her labor. Delivery of the child will cure her if nothing else will.”
“Thank you, Zafar Singh. This lady is the woman’s mistress, and she loves her servant dearly. She will be greatly relieved.”
“What is it?” Velvet asked anxiously, for the conversation had been held in Akbar’s native tongue. “Will Pansy live?”
